Good Luck (слэш)

“What’ll it be?” the man asked, his voice low, a touch rasping. And very clearly British.
Harry’s heart suddenly went galloping, his limbs going cold and tingly. That voice was familiar, but not quite right. He’d had moments since the war where he’d think he saw a flash of Sirius in a crowd and follow intently only to realize it was just any other man. He’d be at a cafe and hear someone laugh and jump to his feet, spinning wildly, looking for Remus’ scarred face and finding only a bewildered stranger. It was like that jerk from the brink of sleep, as your body thinks it's falling; completely involuntary. It always left him feeling angry at that endless, unkillable hope. He swallowed, trying to soothe and suppress it, searching the other man’s face for something familiar.
It was unremarkable in every way; narrow, with brown collar length hair tucked behind ears. The man had unfamiliar grey eyes, maybe 35 or 40. He wore a simple muggle t-shirt and jeans. His arms were wirey. He was maybe the right height to be Snape, but everything else was…. Off. Not dark enough in coloring. Nose completely average sized. Eyes nowhere close. That voice though.